


All Roads Lead to You

by wynnebat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>43 seconds</i> says the counter on his wrist. Stiles takes a sharp left turn, skips his train, and holes up in a bathroom stall. He thinks of small things, of a spell his mother once taught him, of how insignificant he is on this great blue planet. When he looks at it next, it says <i>36 hours</i>. </p><p>He can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Roads Lead to You

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in a snippet meme over [here](http://wynnebat.tumblr.com/post/119454131473/when-you-see-this-share-3-snippets-from-3-random).

_43 seconds_ says the counter on his wrist. Stiles takes a sharp left turn, skips his train, and holes up in a bathroom stall. He thinks of small things, of a spell his mother once taught him, of how insignificant he is on this great blue planet. When he looks at it next, it says _36 hours_.

He can work with that.

His mouth is dry as he leaves the stall, but the tap water only causes his stomach to feel queasy. He doesn't know if it's the effect of nerves or the missed meeting; probably both, because Stiles is lucky like that. There's a touch of bruising under his eyes from lack of sleep, a shot of red through his eyes from too many hours on his laptop, and his clothes look decidedly rumpled. It's not a good look on him.

But at least he was able to avoid the countdown, the meeting, and that's what matters. He doesn't have time for that shit right now. Telling himself he can deal with it in 36 hours, Stiles concentrates on his current problem: getting Scott out from under Deucalion's thumb.

He waits almost an hour for the next train, and keeps an idle eye on his counter. Fate doesn't like being toyed with, and he doesn't doubt that something will go wrong. Still, there's little that can go right after the past couple months; after the sacrifices began, nothing has felt quite right.

There's a little old lady waiting for the same train, and she sees Stiles' wrist as he toys with his ticket stub.

"Oh, we're twinning," she says, showing him her own 36.

They chat a bit, as is expected, and Stiles wonders what it's like, to have a counter only get to zero when you're already so old. He wonders if she has a family, a husband, kids.

The train drops him off at the Beacon Hills station, from where Stiles rents a car. His own Jeep was wrecked during the abduction; Stiles had only narrowly avoided having Scott's fate, having been able to knock out his attacker before he managed to teleport them away. Scott hadn't been as lucky. His fingers tap out keystrokes as he drives a couple miles out of the city, nearing the lair of one of the most dangerous men in the country. He stops the car half a mile out, and with the press of a button, it returns back to the rental shop.

Deucalion's wards don't kill him on sight, and so Stiles is assured of one piece of his preparation; when he settles into the forest that surrounds Deucalion's home and no one comes to attack him, he's satisfied by the rest of his protection. He's not wearing his own charms—there hadn't been enough time, there hadn't been enough anything, and Scott could already be dead for all Stiles knows—and he'd taken a chance, but it had paid off.

Now he's taking an even bigger chance, Stiles thought as he takes a pair of binoculars out of his bag. But he knows Scott would've done the same for him; just as he knows the guilt would've killed him if he'd cut his losses and run.

It's when he isn't paying attention that fate strikes, in the form of a voice coming from Stiles' left.

"Well, well," the man says. "I wasn't expecting to find you _here_."

Stiles drops for the binoculars and goes for his gun, but the man doesn't look worried. He's handsome, which Stiles can definitely appreciate. Tall, dark-haired, his eyes an electric blue—Stiles would've picked him up at his favorite bar had they met in any other circumstance. He's too preoccupied to let his libido run free, but it seems the man doesn't have the same compunctions as his eyes run down Stiles' body.

But his words are strange, and there's enough literature in the world on the subject of meeting a stranger who knows you. Stiles realizes who the man is even before he turns his wrist over and sees the _0 seconds_ written on his skin.

Fuck. He didn't get his 36 hours; he didn't even get half of that.

He'd thought he had more time, but the counter must've switched on him. Fate works in mysterious ways, people say, and Stiles mentally curses at the workings of the world. Still: the man is early.

"I don't have the time for you," Stiles tries, his voice calmer than he feels. "Can we just, y'know, reschedule this for later?" He turns back to his binoculars, staring down the mansion like it would spit out Scott if he glares hard enough. When he glances at the man again, he's clearly amused. "And at least sit down or something. You're going to call attention to us."

"No one else can see me," the man replies. He leans on a tree in clear view of the windows, and Stiles glares and hopes no one else's counter is almost at zero. "Are you a stalker?"

Stiles scowls. But since the man seems to be reluctant to just whisk Stiles off, he asks, "Which answer gets me more time?"

"You're assuming that one of them even will."

"I'm an optimist," Stiles replies. He's also scared out of his mind, because Deucalion's got the state wrapped around his finger; if Stiles doesn't save Scott, nothing will. Reluctantly, he adds, "I can probably beg."

The man considers Stiles' words for too long—long enough for Stiles to make the uncomfortable realization that he's probably reading Stiles' mind—and decides, "I can offer you another couple hours."

Stiles opens his mouth. Closes it. This isn't how he'd thought the meeting would go. Not at all. "What do you want?"

"Amusement," the man replies. "It's been very long since I've been up here. So many things have changed." He looks around, at the cars on the driveway and the laptop next to Stiles, and his lip quirks as his eyes are drawn back to Stiles, "And stayed the same. A good murder never goes out of style."

"I'm not going to murder anyone," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "Probably," he adds under his breath. If he can get a pacifism spell around Deucalion's neck, then he'll have nothing to worry about. "But sure, I'll amuse you." He glances down, but the counter on his wrist doesn't rise with his agreement. That's probably because he's still standing next to a reaper. "Are you planning to leave anytime soon?"

"Now, why would I do that? You'll only vanish again. It took my minions days to find you."

Stiles doesn't like the sound of that word. As far as he knows, regular reapers don't have minions. There's only one person powerful enough to need them and to be associated with the counters: the ruler of the underworld, the man who created the counters in the first place. To hear people tell the tale, he'd done it to force a sense of order in the world. Stiles is pretty sure it was just because the bastard enjoys toying with people's emotions.

But it's not like he can tell his own reaper to fuck off, so he goes with, "So, what do I call you?"

"Peter will do," the man replies.

That's not the name of the king of the underworld. Stiles wonders exactly how much he's in the clear; he wonders exactly how much he doesn't know. Peter smiles at him, like he knows what Stiles is thinking. He doesn't bother to grace Stiles with an explanation.

 _What a jerk,_ Stiles thinks, even though the feeling wars with appreciation, because Peter could have simply collected his soul and been done with this. And now... Stiles is pretty confident, but he thinks, with the king of the underworld at his back, he probably has a fair chance of getting Scott out.

"You'll also have to tell me how you escaped my notice," Peter says.

And, well, Stiles barely thinks before he jumps over the bush, walking quickly towards the house now that the current guards have moved. "Sorry, that wasn't in our agreement," he says.

It all pays off when Peter laughs, his voice rich and deep and barely half a step behind him.

.

(Later, when all's said and done and Deucalion's never going to bother anyone again, and Scott's back in the safest place Stiles can stick him in—right by Allison's side—Stiles goes home and falls into bed. The last thing he sees before he goes to bed is _80 years_ etched into his wrist.

It shouldn't be so unsettling, he tells himself.

But when he wakes up to a note on his bedside table, a simple request for dinner in the same black ink, Stiles doesn't hesitate to say yes aloud.

The next time he looks down, his counter says _36 hours_. Stiles can't wait.)

**Author's Note:**

> (I can already see the trolling that would occur because of Stiles' constantly low timer. "Oh yeah, my counter only has a couple minutes left. Haha, chill, it's all good, no need to panic, it's just my boyfriend the devil coming by...")
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
